Writes St. Paul Teacher: “On my birthday, the year I turned 27, my son Nicholas barreled his way into the world. Our first-born, and our angel. His birth was called ‘traumatic’ because of the trauma it caused to me and to him. The final minutes of his time in my belly were spent without air or blood. He arrived blue and silent, two of the worst qualities for any newborn baby. But this isn’t about that day.

“On May 7, 2004, two days after Nick was born, the course of my life was forever changed. Steve, my husband, and I were at home, dropping off laundry and cleaning up before heading back to the special-care unit of the hospital. He would be there for the next week, at least.

“We were walking out the door of our story-and-a-half starter home when the phone rang. The Caller ID read ‘Hospital,’ and the frantic nurse on the other end screeched for us to hurry back, and that something horrific had happened.

“Forty five minutes later, we made it to the hospital. The Friday-afternoon traffic had delayed us. Our entrance into the special-care unit was hurried and frantic. ‘Steve and Theresa, just go right in,’ said a teary-eyed, sullen-faced nurse.

“We were met with a scene straight out of a medical drama: Uniformed hospital staff were hooking up a baby, my baby, to portable machines that were beeping and hissing. Nicholas was locked in a giant tubular chamber that looked like a human-sized version of the canisters used at the bank to send money to the teller. Inside, Nicholas slept. His bruised body rose and fell with each breath.

“His doctor, a lanky 60-something balding man with glasses, was shaking his head. ‘This hasn’t happened in 20 years,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry.’ His face was pale and drawn; his sadness drifted throughout the room and hung like heavy clouds. My youth and inexperience told me that whatever this meant, whatever he was sorry for and hadn’t seen in 20 years, it would be OK. Doctors would fix him, and he’d grow up to be a normal little boy. He would be fine. ‘We’re taking him to a nearby hospital that can give him more extensive care than we are equipped to handle here,’ said the doctor. ‘You can meet the helicopter at the hospital. Call your families, and have them meet you there.’

“I made a phone call to my parents, knowing somehow that my hot-blooded Italian mother would not be the person to speak with at this moment. ‘Mom, can I talk to Dad?’ I said. Somehow my sobs didn’t carry over the telephone line, because she didn’t hesitate to give him the phone. Then: ‘Dad, Steve and I are on our way to [a different hospital]. There’s been an accident, and Nicholas is being flown over. Please meet us in the NICU as soon as you can.’

“I don’t remember my dad’s response, or what I might have said after that, and quite frankly, the two weeks that followed are a blur. It’s something my brain has allowed to go fuzzy as I have healed, and as I have moved beyond the incredible sadness to where I am today. Between the medical terms, oxygenation percentages, brain scans, and bowel movements, I remember little of the conversations I had with my family, nurses and doctors during Nick’s stay at the hospital.

“I don’t remember the exact moment I understood the gravity of the situation, but early on I knew that we would have to do the unimaginable: We’d have to watch our child die. Our son would die. He would not recover. My parents’ and in-laws’ grandchild would die. Our siblings’ nephew would die. I knew it before I was told, and I felt like I had always known it.

“When your child dies, you immediately feel ill-equipped, inexperienced, childlike, nave, jaded, sick-to-your-stomach, and overwhelmingly lost. You wish the world would stop so everything could focus on your pain, your loss, your sadness. You realize that the world will not know your child and that your child has been robbed of knowing the world. The world will forget he was here. They will forget his thick, dark hair and that he was enormous. They will forget his two days as a ‘normal’ baby, and his ogling grandmothers. They will forget that he stayed alive so all his uncles could take a picture with him. They will forget that his tiny mouth never lost the angelic O shape after the breathing tube was taken out. They will forget that they were wrong — that you told them he was too big for you; that you told them you needed a C-section. They will forget.

“When your child dies, you’re also given an opportunity to shape your destiny. You get to decide if you will handle your grief with dignity or without. Only you can choose to forgive the errant doctors and the absent God. You can share your pain with your family and friends, not caring if the tears flow. You get to decide how your first-born will teach your second-, third-, and fourth-born to cherish life and to love each other mightily.

“When your child dies, a piece of you goes with him, naturally; part of me is buried in Resurrection Cemetery with Nicholas, his baby-blue blanket, and his teddy bear. I don’t know what I would be like today with my 10-year-old son, and I don’t want to know — because while we would sacrifice nearly everything to get Nicholas back, we would not sacrifice the three babies who came after. But that is not an option we were given. They are here only because he is not. We did not have a choice in much of this, but the way we have chosen to honor his life — by embracing our grief and massaging it into something good — has given us a chance to free ourselves from the grips of such a horrific experience. And that is Nicholas’ greatest gift to us.”

In memoriam

Or: One for the books!

John in Highland: “The recent death of Efrem Zimbalist, Jr., brought to mind one of my high-school teachers at St. Thomas Academy who was a fan of ’77 Sunset Strip.’

“Father William Ozark taught religion and regaled us with stories. He claimed that, in a younger day, he could punt a football 70 yards and catch it himself. He was a devotee of yoga, long before it had turned into the fad of today. He also had a habit of throwing erasers at people, either to wake up a sleeping student or as a ‘long-distance handshake’ for one who answered a question correctly.

“Father Ozark smoked a pipe and also enjoyed a good cigar. My dad, Ed, liked to order cigars from Tampa. Occasionally he would send one to Father Ozark — first by way of my older brother, and then through me. One Friday I brought him one from a new bundle of large handmade cigars from somewhere in Central America. On Monday morning before class, he pulled me aside. ‘Tell your dad that was a great cigar,’ he said. ‘It lasted all the way through “77 Sunset Strip”!’ “

Mixed messages

Grouch of Vadnais Heights: “I have a little desk clock that recalibrates itself to the WWV signal every day. On the back, over the battery compartment, is the following message: ‘Do not mix old and new batteries. Do not mix alkaline, standard (carbon zinc), or rechargeable (nickel cadmium) batteries.’ This is always good advice for battery-operated devices. I opened the battery compartment, and what did I find? One AA battery. It’s a good thing they put that warning on there.”

Unstuck in time

Rusty of St. Paul: “On one of those cold, wet days last week, I had a hankering for a Thanksgiving turkey type of dinner. At the co-op, I asked about a bag of bread stuffing and was told it was a seasonal item. So I went to a small neighborhood grocer and found what I needed. When I opened the bag, the cubes tasted a bit stale; I was thinking it might have been in the store since that holiday. I looked at the expiration date: February 25, 2615. Oh. No problem here.”

Out of the mouths of babes

Meema of Eagan: “We were sitting around the kitchen table talking and laughing when, out of nowhere, my 8-year-old grandson, Georgie, said to his grandfather: ‘Papa, I can see your gold teeth, and I have to say I’m not a fan.’

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